


Doing it

by HallowAvengence



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Delia is horny, F/F, and also lovely, mentions of POW camps, mentions of non-consensual touching in past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowAvengence/pseuds/HallowAvengence
Summary: They are together two years or so before anything really happens.Or, Delia Busby might die of sexual frustration.





	Doing it

**Author's Note:**

> I know this fandom is dead. But I still have a small brunette welsh lesbian running around my head getting into mischief with her tall, straight laced, ginger girlfriend. It an effort to appease them, I have written this. I hope they accept the offering and move on. I have a PhD to write and a life to live and other unfinished fic to finish.

They are together two years or so before anything really happens.

In hindsight, Delia thinks it’s odd that it took them so long. Two women, so utterly in love, and both nurses. Both use to dealing with bodies as bodies – as complicated, material things with embarrassing functions and needs.

But then, no one ever talked about it. What two women could do together. Not aloud. Oh, there was talk, sometimes, hushed and scandalised, of what men could get up to – behind closed bathroom stalls in quiet public toilets, or in the dark, deserted bushes of a London park. But no one ever thought about women. A blessing really. Delia could hold Patsy’s hand in public, hug her, brush stray hairs from her eyes and, for the most part, people would see only two good friends.

But, occasionally, there was talk, between women folk, of what girls could get up to alone. Or even, of what particularly doting husbands could do to please their wives, without risking the burden of more children.

Those conversations were dangerous for Delia. They led far too quickly to ideas of what her and Patsy could do together. Ideas that blazed so bright and loud in her head that she worried people would know just by looking at her, just be being near her, what she was thinking. How could they not know, when the image of Patsy spread beneath her, panting, burned so fiercely in her own mind it made her knees weak? Those conversations were best avoided and Delia spent determined hours reciting the most unsexy biological facts she could recall. How many causes for Oligospemia could she could remember? Drinking. Stress. Hormone imbalance. Iron deficiency. What was the proper procedure for the sterilisation of urine samples according the British Health Board? How long would it take a particularly fibrous root vegetable to pass through the digestive system of the average middle-aged man?

She was successful, mostly, in day light hours of supressing any ideas of her and Patsy and what they could get up to if the rest of Poplar kept out of their business.

But later, sometimes, in the privacy of her own room at the nurses’ home, when the other girls were all asleep and Patsy herself was curled away in her own bed a few rooms down, Delia sometimes dared to indulge those ideas – things she had overheard in the nurses’ lunch room or in the queue at the bakers or in the girls’ bathroom at the dance hall. She leafed carefully through imagined moments of Patsy until she trembled with want and slipped quiet, guilty fingers beneath the elastic waistband of her pyjamas to touch herself tentatively.

But such things were secret, dangerous - things to be keep even from Patsy herself. It was hard to find privacy enough to kiss, to talk, to hold one another, let alone more. And, too, deep down, Delia feared whether Patsy – endlessly sensible, practical and realistic Patsy – might not be disappointed in her. Wanting, even in the dark privacy of her own bedroom, more than either of them could safely have.

And so, Delia was content, for the most part, to ignore those ideas. Too limit herself to the occasional indulgence in the darkness of her bedroom and to focus instead on what she could have, did have: Patsy. In mind, if not wholly in body.

That is, until one afternoon, when Patsy herself complicates Delia’s chaste intentions.

They are holed up in the kitchen of the nurses’ home on the bank holiday. It’s unusually, blissfully quiet: the other nurses are either working holiday shifts for time and half, or otherwise off on jaunts to the seaside with boyfriends and lovers and relatives. The whole building, give or take a few napping night-shift nurses, is theirs.

And so, they are kissing, languidly, up against the kitchen counter. Delia pinning Patsy against the sideboard, hands in each other’s hair, lips sticky with two shades of lipstick, metal belts of their uniforms clacking together cheerfully as they move.

They are, Delia knows, in the site line of two open doors and a window. She knows this because Patsy once charted out every potential space in the nurses’ home where public displays of affection were dangerous. Quite literally. There was a diagram. It was colour coded.

There is a thrill to being in the open, in a public space, in board day light. And they are both, Delia thinks - judging from how Patsy’s kisses are so eager, so focused, so uninhibited - indulging in the fact that there is no one to see, or hear or interrupt and, well…

Delia supposes it is her fault really.

Truly alone without the threat of interruption, Delia gets lost in the feel of Patsy. Hands, bolder than normal, trailing lightly up the taller woman’s hips to skim across the shape of Patsy’s brassier. The taller woman twitches, breath hitching and hips canting forward and, without warning, Patsy’s knee jerks upwards to press firmly against Delia’s centre.

Delia gasps loudly, unbidden; flushing hot and throbbing.

They both freeze. In the silence, the white tiled space of kitchen rushes back at them. Hands still on one another and they stare, struck, into each other’s eyes.

“Deels...” Patsy murmurs, and then, suddenly is frantic, anxious. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean- I just-” She breaks from Delia’s grip, her eyes dropping to the floor, apologetic and ashamed. “Gosh, I, I - are you okay?”

Delia considers the question, still leaning against the kitchen side board, feeling slightly too undone to think straight. She’s unsure as to how her soft, amorous Patsy has become the fearful, tense one, twitching across the kitchen from her.

Patsy runs her hands through her hair, shoulders stiff, and Delia bites her lip, trying to reconcile Patsy’s mood with her own languid lust.

“Yes,” she finally settles on, blinking to try and bring herself back to earth. Patsy’s eyes snap up to hers, “I’m more than okay.”

She waits for Patsy’s shoulders to unclench. They don’t.

“I-,” she feels herself flush, but, well, Delia has been stepping out with Patsy for two years now. She learnt by know that there is a slightly different Patsy for every mood. Happy Patsy, joyful Patsy, playful Patsy, sad Patsy, troubled Patsy. And she loves them all. But, now, something is wrong. She hasn’t met this Patsy before. An apologetic Patsy she could understand, an embarrassed one too, even – perhaps – an ashamed one. But this is… something else.

Patsy runs another hand through her hair, tugging at it too hard. The kitchen is still and overly quiet. And Delia thinks, thinks hard, in the cold white tiled space.

“You made me feel good,” are the words she settles on, voicing them into the space between them. Her voice, too loud, reverberates back at her across the white tiled kitchen. She feels her face get hot. “You made me feel more than good, electric really.”

And, oh god, she had. That movement - Patsy’s knee - had made Delia feel something that, well, she had felt before, yes, but never so intense, never so keenly. It was stunning really. For a second Delia had wanted to consume Patsy, to give in to some unnamed, frenzied force. To tear at her clothes. To press the other woman, somehow, inexplicably, inside of her, into her heart.

Across from her, Patsy is regards her unreadably, indecisive about something. She comes, it seems, to a decision because, suddenly, she is stepping closer, still unsure but with a seedling of a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. “Electric, huh?”

“Like I’d touched the metal bed pans without taking off my polyester apron.”

Patsy’s laugh rings loud and bright through the empty, echoey kitchen and Delia takes of opportunity to pull her back into her.

¥

That is it, for a while. But somehow that moment in the kitchen opens up some invisible, unknown door in Delia’s head – a door she hadn’t even know she had closed. And now, every time she looks at Patsy - at the shape of her in her uniform, at the curl of her hair, at the flutter of her lashes, at the husk of her voice - that same clench of lust tugs at her.

It becomes harder to supress those ideas that before she had so carefully kept at bay. No amount of unsexy biological facts are able to quell her thoughts of what Patsy’s moan might sound like, or how soft the skin on the inside of her thighs might be, or what the unclothed shape of her might feel like against Delia’s own body.

Bi-weekly night time forays become nightly, and then twice nightly and Delia would feel guilty, so guilty, if she weren’t just so incredibly… frustrated.

She starts to approach the spotty acne ridden youths in the male surgical ward with more sympathy. She greets as her kin Timothy (who’d got himself stuck in a melon), and Adam (who’d got himself stuck with a carrot), and Anthony who, according to his notes had given himself a rash, poor lamb, from “lack of suitable pursuits to otherwise occupy him.” Delia welcomes them all, in her head, as brothers.

She wonders if she should start a support group, and wonders what the headline in the Poplar Gazette would read. WELSH NURSE BECOMES SAVIOUR TO TEENAGE BOYS, she thinks.

But Patsy’s reaction lingers in her head too.

Delia turns over the way the other woman had so instantly paled, stumbled away from her, looked at Delia like she had done something wrong – like she had hurt her.

And something is wrong. She knows Patsy. She loves Patsy. And maybe, just maybe, Patsy’s reaction is something to do with why they have never gone further before. Why they haven’t even ever discussed going further before. Two years is a long time and, no, it’s not like they can get married but, well, some of Delia’s friends had gone further on their first dates with boys than Patsy and Delia have ever gone.

Either way, something inside Delia has come undone and she doesn’t know if she can bottle it up again.

¥ 

It takes another couple of weeks. Until a night where Patsy creeps into her room, all cold feet and cold nose and soft flannel pyjamas. They fall asleep, curled up together, and Delia thinks, her back pressed against Patsy’s front, this is enough this is enough this is enough.

But they both wake, in the middle of night, jostling each other out of sleep in Delia’s tiny single bed. The whole building is silent around them, dark and cold, accept for their warm pile of blankets.

Patsy kisses her, softly, tasting like sleep and the mint toothpaste she spends a carefully timed five minutes brushing her teeth with. _(Fluoride toothpaste, Deels, look. Discovered by the most marvellous chemist Joseph Muhler.)_

The kisses are gentle and heavy, and Delia’s feels like she might melt completely, pooling off the bed and across Patsy’s skin, not a single solid substance left within her. Patsy is only wearing her loose, over-sized, sleep shirt and without really thinking about it, Delia has slipped hands beneath it to stroke her fingers against Patsy’s hip bones.

Patsy pulls back a little, out of their kiss, “Delia.”

Delia frowns sleepily, too caught up in the feel of Patsy beneath her to pick up on the note of trepidation in Patsy’s voice.

One of her hands, stroking soft semicircles with the pad of her thumb, swipes a slightly wider arch, brushing against the velvet of Patsy’s stomach, a few stray pubic hairs brushing against Delia’s wrist and they both moan and then-

Patsy squirms away from her, catching the offending wrist, and entwining their hands between them on the bed.

“Delia.”

This time the shorter woman hears the tone of command in Patsy’s voice, and the worry too. But there is also arousal, unmistakable in the deep husk of Patsy’s cadence and when Delia’s eyes land on Patsy’s face she can see all three emotions at war in her features.

“Pats?” Delia, murmurs, bringing her other free hand to sooth the crease between the other woman’s eyebrows. “Tell me, please. What is it?”

Patsy’s eyes flicker nervously between Delia’s face, the bed and the ceiling.

The smaller woman watches, waiting.

Finally, Patsy says, “I just don’t know how to tell you, Deels. I- g _osh_ \- it’s all so bally embarrassing.”

“Just,” Delia cups the side of the other woman’s face, “try. It’s only you and me here, and nothing you could say, Patsy, would ever change how I feel about you.”

Patsy gives her a look.

Delia gives her one back.

Finally, she drops her hands from Patsy, and crosses them, demurely, on her own chest. She takes a deep breath, for courage. “Let me go first then,” she says firmly, “show you how it’s done.” Her heart beat pounds against her clasped hands. “I want you Patsy Mount.” Patsy’s eyes go wide and round next to her. Delia presses on, pushing the words out of her throat with a forced confidence, “I want to touch you. Sometimes, I,” she swallows, “sometimes I touch myself, at night, thinking about you.”

Patsy makes a little squeaking noise.

“There are lots of things I’ve heard about, things I would like to try with you. Things I’ve overheard other women talking about or, well, have- have, um, thought up. I want,” Delia wonders if it is possible to die from blushing. She can’t recall any actual medical example. She makes a mental note to look it up later. “I want to make you feel good and I want you to make me feel good too.” She risks a glance at Patsy’s face. If death by blushing is, indeed, possible then it seems likely that the matron might find them both tomorrow morning, stone dead, still lying face to face, having expired together.

TWO PROMISING AND DEDICATED NURSES LIVEDS CUT TRAGICALLY SHORT, Delia writes the headline in her head. And beneath it, the story would read, _found in bed together, police suspect the two women had been commiserating over their lack of husbands before death took them_.

She takes a steadying breath, pushing away the image of the black and white news story, feeling – ever so slightly – hysterical. She uncrosses her arms and reaches across the gap between them, her voice softening as she does so. “I can see that something is wrong, Pats. Something is scaring you and I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Ever. All I want is- is to love you.” Patsy blinks at her and then, suddenly, two perfect tears split down her face, dropping into the space between them. “So, tell me, please, if you can.”

Patsy remains stock still for a moment, tear tracks shining wetly on her face, eyes lowered. Then she brings their joined hands up to the back of her mouth, kisses Delia’s hand and says, shakily, quietly, “I want to love you too. I- I really do. And I can’t say that I haven’t,” she looks up, blowing a stream of air upwards, catching a few strands of her fringe, “also thought about you at night and… touched... myself.” Delia closes her eyes, briefly, against the mental image this supplies her with. She opens them again when she feels Patsy pull her hands from her, shifting her body so she’s no longer directly facing her. And- oh. Delia knows this response, this particularly body position, this coping mechanism.

Patsy worries the tip of her thumb with her other hand, quiet for a moment before beginning again, voice deliberately calm. “Something happened when I was in the camps.”

All at once, Delia feels sick. Patsy must sense the change in her mood because she glances up, reading the expression on Delia’s face instantly. “Not to me, not to me,” she says, quickly. “Thank god,” she murmurs shakily, eyes distant again. “I was too young, even at the end, but… my mother, the other women, well, we all shared quarters you see. There wasn’t anywhere to hide, anywhere to not see it.”

Delia reaches out, tentatively, unsure whether she should touch her. Her fingers brush against the loose fabric of Patsy’s nightshirt and the other woman stiffens briefly and then sinks into the touch, collapsing against Delia.

“I want to, I want to so much Deels. But every time I think about it, it’s like,” Patsy pauses, swallows thickly, “it’s like I am them, those- those men. Like I’m hurting you. Forcing you.”

“No.” Delia hears herself say. There is silence for a second. In it, Delia tries to reign in her rage. Patsy’s body against her is tight; every muscle of her back taut. Delia tries to breath: rage is not what Patsy needs right now.

“Cariad,” she pulls away ever so slightly and grips lightly at the other woman’s shoulders, “look at me, please.”

Patsy turns slowly, her gaze falling somewhere between them on the bed. “I love you.” Delia’s voice sounds like a pick-hammer, too hard, too angry, too definite for the words she’s saying. Words that should be whispered sweetly, quietly, like precious gifts. But Delia feels like a force of nature. Like she could turn into a hurricane and rip apart every man, every person, who has ever, ever hurt Patsy. She tries to soften, to think about Patsy, only Pasty, soft and here and vulnerable and so, so cherished. “I love you. Nothing will ever change that and, I am- I am so sorry that you had to experience that. But, listen to me, I am yours. And you are not like those men. I want you to touch me. I want to be close to you and I-“ Delia pauses, an idea striking her so suddenly and so hard that she feels momentarily lightheaded.

“I am yours, always,” she murmurs and clambers - suddenly intent with purpose - off the bed. Patsy, startled by her abrupt movement, looks at her in shock, reaching out instinctively to pull her back. “One sec, I know I have it somewhere, I-“ she rummages desperately beneath her bed. Mercifully she finds what she’s looking for quickly - the little, cold, ring of metal jumping up and into her hands. She grabs it and climbs back towards Patsy, who looks - for all the world - completely composed, except for the stream of tears making their way down her face.

She forces herself into calmness again, slowing her movements and reaching up to gently cup Patsy’s face, “I love you,” she says, matter of factly, “I want you, and I will always be yours. And, and you never have to be alone, to deal with anything alone again, if you don’t want to, okay?” She waits for Patsy to nod and then holds out the little ring, “Patsy Mount, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Patsy’s wet eyes focus unsteadily on the ring between them.

And then, to Delia’s utter surprise, she laughs. “Delia, goodness Deels, we can’t get married, we’re _women_.”

Delia tries to frown, to at least give the pretence of hurt, but she finds that she is so relieved to see Patsy smiling again she can only beam, stupidly, at the other woman. “Yes, I had noticed.” She pokes the other woman playfully in the shoulder, “but, I would. Marry you, I mean, if you wanted to.” She turns the ring over, letting it fall onto her palm, “I won’t ever love anyone like you, ever again. And, I know we can’t get married, not- not properly, with a church and your Dad and my Mam and everyone watching, but, well, I know I’ll love you for the rest of my life and that, well-“

Patsy kisses her. Swallowing her words, which is probably a blessing really because Delia feels like she could ramble forever and never, really, manage to put into words what she feels.

Patsy breaks the kiss and leans their foreheads together, gently lifting the ring off of Delia’s palm and sliding it onto her ring finger.

“Okay,” she says, “okay.”

¥

Nothing happens immediately. Not really.

But little things shift, ever so slightly.

Patsy stops turning away when they change in the morning together. Watches her, simultaneously hesitant but bold, as Delia fastens her brassier, slides on her stockings, clips her belt.

And she kisses her more. Not on the mouth. No, nothing so bold or expected. But, quick little kisses - to the inside of her wrist when they say goodnight at each other’s doors. Soft, lingering kisses to the nape of Delia’s neck when she’s reading over her desk. And once even, unexpected and so utterly bafflingly arousing that Delia had to sit down for a solid five minutes after, a kiss to Delia’s knee as Patsy bent to re-tie her shoelace.

Delia, for her part, flirts. As a girl, she had always been told she was a flirt by her mother (disapprovingly), by her father (indulgently), and by her friends (teasingly). Well, now, she puts it too good use. She winks and gazes; brushes soft touches against Patsy’s shoulders; husks seemingly innocent phrases at her: _could you pass my book_ and _green is such a lovely colour on you_ and _gosh, these worktops are so clean_. She tries to make Patsy feel wanted, to let the other woman know how much her body aches for her, tries to put everything she feels into innocuous, words and phrases.

And, it works. Patsy, in their stolen kisses in deserted cupboards and silent kitchens and the privacy of their rooms, becomes bolder: her hands slide a little further up or down, her mouth becomes more eager, her body ever closer.

She gets bolder by degree: a kiss here, a hand there, until one day, out of the blue, when she has Delia pressed deliciously against the inside of her bedroom door, she cups Delia through her brassiere.

Delia gasps, unthinkingly, and Patsy freezes, one hand still moulded around Delia’s breast.

They look at each other, and Delia waits for Patsy to pull away.

She doesn’t.

Delia tries to think through the hazy of pink, fuzzy arousal. “That feels good,” she manages, “and, if you want to, I want to too.”

Thinking back later, Delia will realise that she made very little sense, but in the moment Patsy smiles tentatively, and brushes, ever so softly her thumb over Delia’s clothed nipple.

Delia almost explodes.

¥ 

When Patsy goes back to her room later that night, looking pleased and sheepish but reassured, Delia sinks down onto her mattress, peels her underclothes off and reflects, breathlessly, that if Patsy gets much bolder, she might die of a spontaneous, beautiful, thrilling heart attack.

WOMAN DIES, she thinks muzzily as she dozes off, BECAUSE GIRLFRIEND IS TOO HOT.


End file.
